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April 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

April 1st, 2025

Putt-ing Up with Easter

By

My girlfriend and I went to an adult Easter egg hunt—kind of like an adult coloring book, but without the need for a smock. So why I wore one is anybody’s guess. Maybe I thought it was an egg-cellent opportunity to debut my latest avant-garde look: Postmodern Jackson Pollock Chic. Boy, did people smock me for that fashion choice. I always say, you can never be too careful. You never know when you might have some egg on your face — you know, in the “made a fool of yourself” kind of way. Although, considering I was the one wearing a smock to an Easter egg hunt, I might’ve beaten the eggs to it. And it’s not like a smock does much to protect your face anyway.

The Easter egg hunt took place on a golf course. I’ve heard of Cadbury, but never Caddy-bury Creme Eggs. I guess it makes sense to have an Easter egg hunt on a golf course, considering there’s always plenty of “birdies” there. Unfortunately, one of those birdies wasn’t satisfied with the golf-themed pun. When I reached for what I thought was a rogue pastel egg, it pecked at me like I’d just insulted its mother. Mulligan, please? And maybe the witness protection program.

My girlfriend’s pretty good at finding the Easter basket I hide for her, so I knew we had it in the bag… or basket. But just to ensure we had the egg-vantage, I briefly considered swiping a golf cart. I mean, what better way to zoom past the competition? But then I worried the groundskeeper might get teed off and chase after us. And I’ve seen how those movie golf cart chases end — spoiler: it never ends well. It’s not like I’m Hoppy Gilmore, though I suppose I could try to putt-putt past my problems. But my short game’s more ‘hopeless’ than hoppy.

We still managed to find a decent number of eggs, though I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. When I cracked them open, I found only candy. Sure, Tootsie Rolls are great, but I was really hoping for actual hard-boiled eggs. Have you seen the price of eggs lately? Forget golden eggs — I would’ve considered a carton of Grade A’s the real jackpot. So much for my dreams of an egg salad sandwich — all I got were plastic eggs in a sand trap. The whole evening wasn’t a waste though. After the hunt, the clubhouse threw a real par-ty complete with pizza. They even had a live band, and when they launched into the Smockarena, you better believe I started to bogey. Suddenly, nobody questioned my smock. Turns out, a smock is the perfect attire for busting out nostalgic ’90s dance moves. It was practically a smock hop. I may look like a putz, but my girlfriend should just be glad I didn’t commit to my original costume idea: Nabbit from Mario. If I had, that golf cart chase would’ve been a whole different game — and not one I’d win without a lightning bolt.

March 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

March 22nd, 2025

Thai Hard with a Vengeance

By

I had a craving for Thai food, and instead of ordering in like a sane adult, I decided to Thai Hard—with a Vengeance. I was racing against a ticking bomb in the kitchen, seconds from exploding. Okay, maybe it was just the oven timer—but if I didn’t curry up, I was pretty sure it was going to start raining snow peas like flaming shrapnel.

The result? Thai green curry so fabulous it practically demanded a suit and Thai just to eat it. Instead, I attended dinner in my finest “It’s On Like Donkey Kong” t-shirt and a pair of Sesame Street fleece pajama bottoms my girlfriend gave me. Underdressed? Probably. I cooked Thai, not Hong Kong cuisine—and the Donkey Kong on my shirt looked just as confused as I was underdressed. It was off like Donkey Kong, and the curry knew it. Also, I’m fairly certain sesame oil isn’t sourced from Sesame Street. I mean, for one, a bird as large as Big Bird probably would’ve eaten all the sesame seeds needed to make it—as well as a one-ton bag of wontons.

For the appetizer, I served Thai egg drop soup—because obviously, I had to “egg drop it like it’s hot.” Pro tip: do not actually drop it. Not unless you’re into second-degree burns or ruining a perfectly good pair of Sesame Sleepers.

As a side, I paired the curry with veggie dumplings—because every dumpling deserves a second shot at love—and some spring rolls so spring-loaded, even my mattress got jealous. Although, let’s be honest, it was already feeling overlooked thanks to my pajamas. My mattress can be real Elmo-tional like that.

The meal? To Thai for. The curry, simmered in coconut milk and green chilies, was so rich it could’ve made takeout cry—or just my mattress. I almost considered quitting my job and becoming a curry courier. Of course, my first delivery would’ve been to Sesame Street—if they hadn’t already invited themselves to dinner.

Grover claimed he was just doing “quality control,” which mostly involved holding a clipboard and sampling things with dramatic flair. Ernie brought chopsticks but used a rubber ducky as a spoon, and Bert kept stressing about how much he was supposed to tip me—and why we weren’t having food from Hong Kong instead. By the time they were done, there wasn’t much left to share—just one sad dumpling, which Oscar the Grouch snagged, then immediately complained about. Still down in the dumps, as always.

Oh, and the fortune cookies? Let’s just say they met an unfortunate end at the hands of a certain dark blue menace. He claims he was looking for something to read. I should’ve known better. Next time, I’m locking dessert in the cookie jar—with a phadlock. And maybe a warning label: Not for Cookie Monsters.

I swear he left crumbs shaped like alphabets on the floor. I’m still finding C’s in the rug. And as difficult as it’s been to Swiffer the carpet, at least the oven didn’t explode and make an even bigger mess. Though honestly, that might’ve been the only thing scary enough to keep Cookie Monster away.

I never got to read my fortune. But I imagine it would’ve gone something like:
“This fortune is brought to you by the letter ‘X.’ (You know, like that dumpling who ghosted me.) And your lucky numbers are: 1… ah, ah, ah.”

It was a meal to remember, pajamas and all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to explain to my mattress why it wasn’t invited.

March 19th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 19th, 2025

The Wizard of Ounces

By

I have athlete’s foot, which is weird considering I’m not an athlete. The closest I’ve come to a marathon is a TV marathon. Unless, of course, you count channel surfing as a sport. I bring a whole new meaning to the surfer phrase “Totally tubular, dude!” Unfortunately, while channel surfing, I still manage to wipe out—by which I mean I fall asleep mid-show and take an unscheduled hour-long nap on the couch.

Speaking of couches, I’m basically a couch potato—no, scratch that—a fully loaded couch potato, stuffed with cheese, sour cream, and regret. And after dinner? I level up to a couch cake, because at that point, I’m just layers of laziness and frosting.

At this point, I should probably exercise more. Even switching channels feels like a workout. Some people do circuit training—I do remote control calisthenics. Maybe I don’t even need exercise—maybe I need an exorcist, because I think I’m turning into The Blob.

Exercise and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. Not like the friendship I have with Fat Albert. We go way back—back to the buffet line, again and again. “Hey, hey, hey! They put out a bowl of Jell-O!” Hopefully, it’s just gelatin and not my cousin Blobert. He’s too much fun to be dessert. I always say, “For a good slime, call Blobert.”

Anyway, I decided to fight back against my athlete’s foot with some Tinactin. It’s tough acting, but maybe a little too tough. I’m half convinced spraying it on my feet is going to turn me into the Tin Man. Next thing you know, I’ll be rusting in place, waiting for some kid to oil my joints just so I can reach the remote. Just what I need—another reason to not be able to move. That can’t be good for my heart. If I even have a heart. I’ll have to ask the Wizard about that, though he’ll probably just give me a heart-shaped alarm clock—useful only for waking me from my midafternoon wipeout. At this rate, hitting snooze will feel like triple bypass surgery.

Maybe I need a different kind of wise master. Not Yoda, but the StairMaster. (Though I’d rather lift an X-wing out of a swamp than climb stairs.) It’s not my fault I got this out of shape—my stomach doubles as a stove and being made of metal definitely adds a few extra pounds. What started as a simple case of athlete’s foot has somehow spiraled into an existential crisis.

But hey, maybe this is my chance to become an athlete after all! Maybe I’ll even make it to the Olympics. I’d make a great bobsledder—though, let’s be honest, if this Tinactin keeps working too well, I won’t just be racing in the sled—I’ll become the sled. Or, more accurately, the blobsled. Maybe I could even come close to winning a medal like those guys in Cool Runnings. One thing’s for sure—my feet would definitely feel cool running now.

The Words I Owe You

Poetry Writing

The Words I Owe You

By

Oftentimes, I wish I had been a better son,
You always knew best, but I never listened.
Only now have your lessons begun to shine,
Helping me leave past regrets behind.

I regret it took your passing to see,
Yet in the last light of day, you shine through me.
Like the glow of your kitchen where laughter would rise,
And the scent of spaghetti still lingers in mind.

Your birthday is here—the one I’d forget,
Not out of neglect, nor thoughtlessness,
But somewhere deep, I always knew,
That birth meant one day; you would die too.

As good as you thought I was with words,
I failed when it mattered, my voice unheard.
Now it’s too late to apologize,
But if I could, I’d do it right.

March 15th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 15th, 2025

Call a Cabbage, Not a Paddy Wagon

By

St. Paddy’s Day is nearly here, and fingers crossed none of my friends party like shamrockstars and wind up in the back of a paddy wagon. This year, I’ve opted to cook with Guinness rather than drink it—a decision so shocking it probably deserves a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Tonight’s menu? Guinness Macaroni and Cheese paired with Irish Soda Bread, generously slathered with a smattering o’ Irish butter. Spot a theme? That’s right—carbs. After this meal, my fitness trainer might just file for unemployment. And if I’m feeling particularly posh, I’ll round things out with a cuppa Irish Breakfast Tea—though I have to wonder if drinking “breakfast” tea for dessert violates some kind of culinary law.

Tomorrow, I’m tackling a St. Patrick’s Casserole because why quit when you’re on a roll? Think of it as a four-leaf clover meal: layers of corned beef (or seitan, because plants deserve a little luck too) stacked atop roasted cabbage and carrots, all drenched in a Guinness-agave glaze. And on the side? A mountainous pile of Colcannon mashed potatoes, tall enough to rival Croagh Patrick—though significantly easier to conquer in stretchy pants.

So why the over-the-top, “top o’ the evening to ya” St. Paddy’s Day feast? Well, for one, kiss me, I’m Irish—or, well, Irish-ish. Okay, not Irish at all, but Irish I was, since kisses sound delightful. Mostly, though, I just love any excuse to cook themed meals—or, let’s be real, any meals at all. Never mind the Reuben I had last night. I already know I eat too much without you Rueben it in.

Of course, with my luck, Trick—the mischievous leprechaun artist from The Naughty List’s Bad Potluck—will catch wind of my feast and crash the party uninvited. I’d rather not spend another holiday frisking his pockets for my fine silverware. Speaking of Croagh Patrick, they call it “the Reek”—though honestly, Trick gives it some stiff competition. Somebody get that leprechaun an Irish Spring sponsorship. Then again, even if I did gift him a bar, he’d probably try to carve it into a miniature sculpture and sell it back to me at an outrageous markup. Classic Trick—up to his shenanigans again and shenanigan.

By the time I’m done cooking, my kitchen will look like a Guinness factory exploded, and I’ll be too full to move. Which, now that I think about it, is probably the only thing preventing me from ending up in that paddy wagon after all.

March 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 14th, 2025

Would You Like Flies with That?

By

They say you can catch more flies with honey, but I’d argue you could catch even more with a Venus flytrap. Then again, that might lead to a Little Shop of Horrors situation. And if that’s the case, I’d strongly advise against singing show tunes to an alien carnivorous plant—unless, of course, you enjoy being plant food with a Broadway soundtrack.

Speaking of questionable dietary choices, who in their right mind would want to put honey and flies on their buttermilk biscuits anyway? Unless, of course, you’re Michigan J. Frog. “Hello, my baby! Hello, my honey! Hello, my ragtime gal!” I feel like if I eat too many biscuits with fly honey, it most definitely will be ragtime at my house—and not in a musical way.

In other parts of the world, eating insects is perfectly normal. Take France, for example. They have escargot, which is just a fancy French way of saying snails. I think I’ll stick with French fries, thanks. Meanwhile, a small town in Brazil enjoys dipping queen ants in chocolate, and my sister just got back from Mexico, where she was served chapulines—fried grasshoppers. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with a simple meal instead of mealworms. Followed by an after-dinner grasshopper mocktail—sans the grasshoppers.

Not that I haven’t accidentally eaten bugs before. One summer, I was riding my bike and went straight through a cloud of gnats. It was like nature’s version of drive-thru dining. I suddenly understood what it’s like to be a whale filtering krill—except instead of growing a majestic blubber layer, I just choked and coughed for five straight minutes.

But I get it—bugs are packed with protein. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before some trendy brunch spot starts serving “organic honey-drizzled locust toast with a side of ethically sourced caterpillar compote.” How about a salad with dragonfly dressing? That one just sounds like something a wizard eats. And knowing hipster food trends, it’ll probably cost $25.

Next thing you know, there’ll be a new cof-flea chain called Starbugs. “Yeah, I’ll have a venti Beetlejuice—but maybe just once. Say it three times, and a wisecracking dead guy might show up and make you die from laughter… literally.” And for dessert? Ladybug ladyfingers.

Then again, we might already be eating more bugs than we realize. Ever had red velvet cake? That deep red color? Yeah, thank a tiny bug called the cochineal. Suddenly, a chocolate-covered queen ant doesn’t seem so bad—though I still prefer my sweets to be insect-free.

So, while I respect the cultures that enjoy insects as a delicacy, I think I’ll keep my biscuits bug-free. And if I do end up eating a grasshopper, someone make sure I don’t start hopping around, croaking “Hello, my baby!”—top hat and all.

March 13th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 13th, 2025

The Spice is Right

By

Since I’m such a seasoned chef, I like to have a lot of seasonings on hand. I know what you’re probably thinking: “Bork! Bork! Bork!” I said seasoned chef, not Swedish Chef. But with the sheer number of spices and herbs in my kitchen, I might as well host my own cooking show. Welcome to The Spice is Right! And you can call me… Bob Borker.

With all these herbs, my kitchen isn’t just a place for cooking—it’s basically a holistic healing center. Need a cure for the common cold? I’ve got ginger, turmeric, and honey. Feeling sluggish? Try some cayenne for a natural detox (or at least a reason to chug milk). I’d say I’m just one essential oil away from becoming a wellness guru, but let’s be honest—I’d probably spill it everywhere.

That said, even an herbal healer needs a little organization. It’s time for a proper spice rack. The only problem? I have no idea how to build one. I’m not a carpenter. If I were, I’d spend less time cooking and more time singing “Close to You” in an angelic contralto. Besides, my last attempt at assembling furniture resulted in an entertainment center that looks more like an entertainment epicenter—as in, the exact point where an earthquake just hit.

But I don’t need to add carpentry to my already impressive résumé. Some of you might be wondering, with such a lucrative career as a humorist, why I even need to moonlight as a chef. The answer? I have a lot of mouths to feed… mostly the ducks at the park. I’m hoping one of them turns out to be Scrooge McDuck and buys me a spice rack as a thank-you.

As a cook, people often ask me why my food tastes so good. “What’s your secret?” they wonder. I usually respond, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Or, if I want to keep them on their toes, “Never mind, I’ll just wait for the poison to kick in.” That’s when they start dialing Poison Control, and I have to clarify—“Relax, the secret is cumin.” They never see that cumin.

But since people may now be a little hesitant to eat my cooking, and these anecdotes won’t make me enough money for a spice rack anytime soon, I guess I’ll just turn it into a game. Next time I’m cooking, I’ll tell my girlfriend, “I Spice with My Little Eye something brownish yellow,” and let her find the cumin.

March 7th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 7th, 2025

Indiana Jones and the Penny of Doom

By

My girlfriend and I went to the bookstore on Sunday. Because, despite what you’re reading here, I’m actually an avid reader. After making our selections, we went up to the counter to pay. The total came to exactly $20.01.

I’ve heard of “a penny for your thoughts”, but never “a penny for other people’s thoughts”—you know, in written form. I reached into my pocket and came up with nothing but lint balls.

That’s one of life’s little mysteries: how lint always finds its way into your pockets. It’s so common it should almost be a form of currency. Think about it—no more worrying about correct change for tolls when you have an endless supply of pocket lint to pay with. “That’ll be $3.50.” Here’s two nickels and a tuft of blue fuzz. Keep the change.”

Turns out, lint still isn’t recognized as a form of payment yet, so I had to ask my girlfriend if she had a penny.

And that’s when our simple bookstore trip turned into a full-scale archaeological excavation.

She began to dig through her purse literally, pulling a shovel out of it to help with the process. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Indiana Jones himself showed up, believing the Holy Grail was buried in there. Or worse… his lesser known, significantly less thrilling brother, Ohio Jones.

Ohio Jones isn’t an adventurer like his brother. He’s a very niche scientist, a world-renowned expert in purse anthropology—a man dedicated to studying the ancient artifacts, lost civilizations, and assorted gum wrappers buried within the depths of handbags. Some say he once uncovered a long-lost TV remote in a purse—no one knows how it got there, especially since the owner didn’t even own that brand of TV. And legend has it he’s still searching for a purse that doesn’t contain at least one crumbling granola bar.

And judging by the ever-growing pile of debris emerging from my girlfriend’s purse, he would have considered this a career-defining discovery.

I braced myself. What horrors lurked within?

  • A single bowling shoe (but no sign of the other one).
  • Last weekend’s leftover gyros (somehow still warm, and yet, completely inedible).
  • Rocco, our pet rock, looking strangely unfazed by the chaos.
  • A snow globe that, when shaken, inexplicably made it start snowing outside.
  • A fully functional Etch A Sketch displaying a suspiciously accurate self-portrait of my girlfriend—who hadn’t touched it.

Anything but a penny. Not even a single piece of pocket lint.

At this point, the cashier looked visibly annoyed, and a line had started forming behind us. That’s when I tried bartering.

“What about a mint?” I asked. “Pennies are technically minted after all.”

The cashier stared at me like I was mintally unstable while my girlfriend, now knee-deep in her purse, seemed to have vanished.

That’s when things got truly unsettling.

Her purse just sat there, untouched. As if it had swallowed her whole.

I’d heard of The Portable Door, but never The Portable Purse—though, technically, all purses are portable. Just not in the sense that you can step into them and instantly teleport anywhere in the world.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

If you’re thinking, “This all sounds far-fetched,” then clearly, you’ve never seen a franchise milked for all it’s worth. Because I was thinking “sequel”—as in The Portable Purse, the completely unnecessary follow-up to The Portable Door.

Unless you were the cashier or the increasingly impatient guy behind us—then this is absolutely what happened.

Just as I was about to launch a full-scale search and rescue mission, my girlfriend suddenly rematerialized out of thin air.

The cashier, too weirded out to care anymore, just waved us off. “It’s fine.”

On my way out, I placed a half-sucked mint covered in pocket lint in the Take-a-Penny, Leave-a-Penny tray. Because I didn’t want anyone else to have to go through what we did.

Turns out, I had a penny in my pocket the whole time—but obviously, I couldn’t waste it. I needed exact change for the toll on the way to pick up Indiana’s stepsister, Illinois Jones. Besides, how else could I afford my penny wedding and special guest pennywhistle performance by Pennywise?

Some might call it The Penny of Doom, but I just call it budgeting.

I should also, at the very least, have some Pennyroyal Teas on hand for the occasion—it’s only proper.

But that’s a story for another anecdote. Or franchise.

March 6th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 6th, 2025

Fat Tuesday… and Wednesday Through Sunday

By

Mardi Gras was this week, also known as Fat Tuesday. Personally, I like to think of fat as more of a Tuesday-through-Sunday kind of thing. You might be wondering: what about Fat Monday? Well, like my fine feline friend, Garfield, I also hate Mondays.

Speaking of Garfield, my girlfriend and I were browsing Ross Dress for Less—the go-to store when your belt decides it’s had enough and walks out of your life every other month. At this rate, I’m thinking of switching to suspenders. Not only would they be more practical for my ever-expanding waistline, but they’d also give me that rugged lumberjack aesthetic. I could look like Paul Bunyan!

…Or, in my case, Paul Funyuns. And let me tell you, it stopped being fun about three or four bags ago. Now, every time I call my girlfriend babe, I can’t help but picture her as a giant blue ox. It’s not my fault—I need something to make me feel better about my size 2X flannel. At this point, I’m one more X away from “three strikes, you’re out.”

Anyway, where was I before I got distracted by snacks? Oh right—Ross. We were there shopping for my new wardrobe of togas (or, as I like to call them, muumuus for men), when I came across a Garfield wallet. And in that moment, I had a revelation: I need that… so my wallet can be just as fat.

Because let’s be honest—writing anecdotes doesn’t exactly pay the bills. Actually, it doesn’t pay anything at all. But maybe, just maybe, if I owned the Garfield wallet, it would somehow work its magic and stuff itself with cash. I could finally become a fat cat—the kind of guy who can actually afford a trip to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras properly.

It’s ironic that New Orleans is so big (pun intended) on Fat Tuesday when lean is right there in the name. It must be amazing to see the parade and have beads thrown at you. Though, knowing me, I’d mistake the beads for beans, eat them, and officially earn my third X.

March 5th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 5th, 2025

Gyro-Mantic Gestures

By

Last weekend, I whipped up a feast fit for a Greek god—gyros with a side of Greek fries. Okay, so maybe I’m not a god. I’m not even Greek. More like a geek. But if I were a Greek god, I’d be Pan, the goat god. That way, I could tell my girlfriend to either marry me or pull my goat for a change. (If you don’t get that reference, consult my journal entry Get Your Goat—highly recommended reading.)

So, there I was, Geek Goat God Chef, assembling the essentials: pita, meat (mushrooms for me— even gods have dietary quirks), Roma tomatoes, red onions, and, of course, Tzatziki—fun to say, even better to eat. The romaine lettuce? More Roman than Greek, but I let it slide.

When it was time to build our gyros, I turned to my girlfriend and declared, “Gyro good to go!”—as if I’d just ended world hunger. She stared, unimpressed. Either awestruck by my culinary genius or quietly reconsidering our entire relationship.

But the gyros themselves? No joke—they were divine. So good, in fact, that I’m now seriously considering having a big fat Greek wedding. That is, if my girlfriend ever stops pulling my goat and actually marries me.

To be honest, though, after making those gyros, my kitchen looked like Zeus had thrown a tantrum. Or worse—like a Minotaur had tried to make dinner and lost a fight with the fridge. I nearly smashed a few plates myself—“Opa!”—just to pass off my despair as festivity.

And what a big fat Greek wedding it would be. I ate so much Mediterranean food; I might be the Mediterranean now. If my girlfriend gets cold feet, I wouldn’t blame her—I’ve put on a few pounds (curse you, falafels) and now resemble something that could eat the tin cans off a Just Married car. If I ever hope to fit into a tux, I should swap Tzatziki for plain Greek yogurt. Or better yet, embrace my fate and get married in a toga—breathable, stylish, and, most importantly, expandable.